Lone Wolf
by BurningTyger
Summary: A Marauder reflects, post-Order of the Phoenix.


Lone Wolf

A Marauder reflects, post-Order of the Phoenix.

Genre: Um, angst. Definitely angst.

Rated PG for angst (obviously) and a murderous thought or two.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns the wonderful wizarding world. I am only borrowing it in the hopes of tugging on a few heartstrings.

Author's Note: As one could assume from the summary, this story builds upon events from the fifth book. Logically, if you haven't read that book -- but really, what self-respecting fan hasn't yet? ;-) -- you should _not_ read any further. Stop. Now. I mean it. Why are you reading this part? I told you to stop...

(-o-)

Lone Wolf

It seems that I am the last one standing.

The déjà vu makes me ill. This isn't the first time I've felt like this, isn't the first time I've known what it's like to be utterly alone. I knew this feeling fourteen years ago, when I stood before the charred ruins of the Potter house in Godric's Hollow. I knew it when Snape, without a word, threw the _Daily Prophet_ down for me to read the scrolling headline: 'Three wizards, twelve Muggles dead in worst Dark Wizard murder spree since 1875.' I knew it when I read the names, when Hagrid brought back that flying motorbike.

But I refused to believe it. James and Lily and Peter dead, and Sirius -- my Padfoot, my best friend -- had betrayed us all. Four of the only people I'd ever become close to, and all of them were gone. Impossible. Just...unbelievable.

I didn't believe it until I saw you in Azkaban. You didn't see me pass by; I didn't linger. Curled up on the floor of that tiny cell, you looked as worn and gray as the robes I was wearing. You looked like you were suffering unspeakably in that hellhole.

I hoped that you were.

Then, twelve years later, I found I was wrong, that I wasn't the last Marauder, that we had all been betrayed -- not by you, but by Peter. I cannot describe the joy I felt when I embraced you, though you were trembling with exhaustion and I could have counted all of your ribs. You were here, you were alive, and you were innocent. Never mind that Peter got away, that we could never truly clear your name. I knew you were still there, and that was all that mattered to me. I knew I wasn't alone.

(-o-)

But as I stand before the archway, I know that I _am_ alone, and it's for good. Everyone else has gone -- Moody, Dumbledore...somebody's even carried Tonks out of here. I should have stopped Harry chasing after Bellatrix, but I couldn't. I hope he catches her, and I hope he kills her. She deserves to die for what she's done: she's taken you away from me, and this time I know that you aren't coming back.

When you escaped from Azkaban, it was as though you had returned from the dead. I think all of us -- and none more than you and I -- believed that nothing could overcome you, that you were, for all intents and purposes, pretty much immortal. Of course, we've always believed that, haven't we? Believed that we couldn't die, that we could do incredible things, impossible things, and live to tell the tale over a bottle of Ogden's best firewhiskey. Oh, what fools we've been!

The veil is just before me now, fluttering ever so slightly in some otherworldly breeze. It doesn't look sinister; it doesn't look as though it has just stolen my best friend away from me. How can something so diaphanous be so permanent? I can hear sounds from the other side, the quiet susurrus of the dead. I want to blast the curtain out of existence. I want to tear down the veil so badly that my hands are aching at my sides. Would you be there if I did?

"Padfoot!" I cry, but I hear no change in the whispers. I don't know what I want -- a good-bye? A laugh, a curse, a shout? "Padfoot!" My voice breaks. "Please..."

But I don't want words. I just want _you_, here and real and alive, and I want you to shake your head and laugh at me and ask me if I really thought you were dead, if I really thought that the things we did tonight could have such dire consequences. I want you to berate me for lingering here; I want you to bound up the stairs, wand raised, ready to defend Harry. I want you back.

When you and Peter and Prongs first suggested the Animagus spell, I didn't want you to do it. It was a ridiculous idea, a dangerous one, and an unnecessary one at that. You just looked at me, and you asked if I would prefer to be by myself. And I couldn't make myself say "yes."

Because you were right, Padfoot.

It's no fun being the lone wolf.


End file.
